I was 15 years old
and started
my first job.

I visited
my paternal
grandmother
in London
and we sat in
her back garden.

Is that your
new suit?

Yes I bought it out
of my own money.

Looks nice,
makes you look
like a gentleman,
she said.

Have you seen
your father
in recent years?

No not in years.

You're not like him
at all, thank God.

I'd not seen
my old man
for a few years
and that was ok.

How's your mother?

She's ok.

How's the feller
she's got now?

He 's good.
Good role model,
I said.

That's good.
Your father
was a schmuck.

Your grandfather
goes out
in the garden
when he
comes around.

I talk to him,
I’m his mother.
Mothers do that
kind of thing.

How's Grandfather?
I asked.

He's out,
gone to the shops,
needs to get out,
he hates retirement.

He taught me
how to draw,
I said.

He's good at that,
she said.

How are you?
I asked her.

She smiled,
her semi-blind
eyes twinkled.

I'm fine,
made of tough stuff,
she said.

I gazed at her,
her white hair
permed,
her eyes
half-blind,
her small
warm hands
in her lap.

And I remembered
the time
when my mother told me
that Gran chased
some woman
who tried to sell her
clothes pegs
which were dud.

I smiled.
She never saw,
but she listened
and that's what
grandmothers
are for.